


green leaves

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Satyr Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13638207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Finally he spoke, deep voice laced with bafflement, “You are half goat?”How expected, he was a fool.“Satyr, is the correct term,” Loki told him and perhaps it was his years of tutoring that allowed him to tolerate his ignorance.





	green leaves

**Author's Note:**

> In which Satyr Loki must teach Thor to be king.

…

Gently Loki tossed a log into the hearth, watching as embers so close to death found new life, their heated bodies taking in deep breaths, gasps in the color of gold and orange, birthing flames with new found goals and sharp furious burning claws. Fire licked up the side of the log, and the dry wood screamed and hissed for unoffered mercy. Smoke tickled his nose, and he sighed at the soft heat the fire offered, lightly, the kiss of a butterfly's wings against his cheeks, his eyes fluttering close. He let myself momentarily melt into the warmth, the heavy scent of charred wood, and the slow red dance of flames beneath the blackness of his eyelids.

Yet the promise of peace was always short lived for thunder roared across the sky shattering any hope silence. Rain soon followed, singing and chiming as it collided and slide across the roof.

Loki stood, closing the window's shutters, as lightening cut the sky open, with the quick speed of a sharp knife. The night's weather would not be kind, and what a shame for the day's sun had been so fine.

…

It started like the song of war, slowly growing in anxious rhythm and speed, beating and beating like a drum within the fragile framing of my skull.

He awoke with a jolt, breath catching like a thread within his lungs.

Furiously he blinked away the sleep that still plagued his eyes and weighted his lids, slowly coming to the realization that the pounding cacophony was not the remnant of a dream but an object of reality. He knelt, long pale fingers rubbing awareness into his muscles and bones, coaxing movement into a tired body. He kicked, hooves catching blankets, and untangling the cocoon of them from his limbs.

Rising from the bed, Loki glanced upwards, night light filtered through the window's shutters in droplets of purple and black ink

The night was at its peak, the hour late, a strange time for someone to knock upon his door. But that was not the greatest oddity, the utmost abnormality lay in the fact that a person had manage to find his home, hidden deep in the forest's womb.

Only a few steps were required, to cross the width of my small abode, and therefore he reached the door in one wide stride, and gripped the door handle swiftly, wanting nothing more than to end the pestering annoyance of the other's knock and to return to his secluded silence and serene sleep.

With much anticipation he drew the door open a mere slit, the night's wind finished his work with its eager curious hands, flinging the door wide open. The cold spring air dampened with rain kissed his skin, painting cheeks pink with the chill of it and erasing any remnants of sleep from his body.

It was then Loki met the eyes of his unwanted visitor, a soft sorrow filled blue that quickly swam with momentary relief upon meeting his. The stranger’s blonde hair lay plastered against the square harsh contours of his jaw, his nose deeply reddened with cruel bite of frost, and his tunic sodden and long past wet, stuck to the hard plane of his chest like a second skin. Rain ran rivulets down his closed eyes and the cords of his neck, pooling at the bones of his collar.

And it did not take someone with wit or studied knowledge to realize he had weathered this rain for far too long.

Suddenly he shuddered softly—the peculiar whispers of it traveling up his spine—and for a moment Loki thought he may die. Yet he supposed such simplicity or luck was not on his side, for he tipped forward, toes losing their footing as he fainted. And the fool that Loki was, made move to catch him, his heavy muscled weight sending them both crashing to the floor.

Loki grunted in pain, at the growing bruise on his bottom and the ache at his tail's base.

Unconscious the stranger breathed shakily with exhaustion—the sound of a stone rattling between the curve of his ribs.

Loki let out a sigh of exasperation, as he attempted to squirm from beneath him.

It seemed he would not be returning to my bed this night.

…

It was a struggle—Loki’s muscles screaming with protest and his shoulders giving a muted pop—but somehow, he managed to drag him to his bed, curses flying from Loki’s thin lips all the while. Loki pulled at his tunic and trousers, fighting his dead weight and stiff limbs, wishing he was cruel enough to forgo such an act and leave him to suffer from chill and fever in his soaked clothes.

Careful and ever mindful, Loki covered his large frame with a layer of furs, watching as his furrowed brows relaxed and his breathing slowed to the sea's soft lull.

The hearth velvet glow cast the stranger in gold, bestowing him the grand mask of a fallen god. And perhaps he was, for as Loki hung his clothes by the hearth to dry—the fabric sighing against his skin and the fine quality of thread smoothly sliding between his finger's tips—he noticed the embroidery at his tunic's collar.

Gold runes, Æsir runes, the markings of Óðinn's family line, stitched with a delicate patient hand.

…

Loki lay his head against windowsill and watched as the sun rose, slowly greeting the land's horizon, hesitant and weary at first, before growing with sureness and gracing the sky with her bright presence. The hands of day worked cleverly, painting over the stars and the blackness of night with a brush of amber, pink, and blue. Birds rejoiced at the coming of morning and the end of the night's storm, singing their song of thanks as they flew, feathered wings slicing the air.

The wind rushed past, rustling the inky black locks of hair at Loki’s nape and smelling sweetly of the season to come and faintly of the season passed.

“Where in Hel am I?” came a groan from behind him.

Surely he must have been sent here to shatter Loki’s every chance of serenity, for if that was his purpose, he was succeeding.

Loki turned, to see him sitting up in bed, to see his thick blonde brows crease with puzzlement—giving him the look of a confused lion—as his gaze took in Loki’s form. Sapphire eyes slowly traveled upwards, over hooved feet, and legs covered thickly with brown fur, to the line where fur and skin met at my navel. His gaze traveled upwards yet, to Loki’s temples and the horns that sprouted there, curving backwards against the sides of his skull.

Finally he spoke, deep voice laced with bafflement, “You are half goat?”

How expected, he was a fool.

“Satyr, is the correct term,” Loki told him and perhaps it was his years of tutoring that allowed him to tolerate his ignorance.

Loki turned again, giving him his back as he walked to the hearth, and the kettle that hung above it, ladling tea into a small cup, green buoyant leaves floating on the surface. Returning to his side Loki sat, the cup cradled within his palms held out in offering.

“Drink, it will help prevent fever.”

He eyed Loki with suspicion.

Exhaling Loki spoke, “It is not poisoned.”

Loki brought the cup to his lips, eyes lowered with pleasure as he took a small sip. The drink hot and pleasant as it ran down his throat, bitter and saccharine as it settled within his stomach, tasting clean, and of summer and outdoors, the tea's herbs numbing his tongue's tip.

“If I was planning to kill you I would have left you in the rain last night. Now drink, “Loki said, giving him a crooked grin.

And this time he took the offered cup, his nose only crinkling slightly with displeasure at the taste.

…

“What is your name?”

He asked when finished, coughing slightly as he set the cup to his side.

“Loki. My name is Loki. Thor Óðinnson, prince of Asgard.”

The shock that widened Thor’s eyes and spread across his face was highly amusing and helped lessen the annoyance of yesterday's troubles.

“How do you know this? Did my father send you to watch over me? Does he truly think me a boy in need of a nanny?” His fingers clenched, knuckles fading white with suppressed rage.

Laughter bubbled in Loki’s chest like a spring stream, “Calm yourself. I know not your father, besides of what I heard and read. It was only a matter of putting the pieces together, the embroidery on your tunic, your age, the only possibility is you are in fact Thor, Óðinn's son.”

“I am.”

“Well then Óðinnson, answer me this. What is an Æsir prince doing on the simple planes of Midgard?”

…

He did have a prince's voice, well phrased gravel that commanded every attention, and when he spoke Loki listened, fully enveloped by each reverberation, the way every word reached the marrow of his bones. It was a simple story he told, the grief he felt evident with each jagged pause he took.

…

“A few _Jötnar_ attacked Asgard's walls. My father refused to act, preferring the company of his cowardice. And what was I to do, let the whole of the nine realms think us a weak kingdom? I was to be king one day, and so I took action into my own hands, I readied myself to invade Jötunheimr but my father caught me before I had any chance to defend Asgard's honor. He called me foolish—a weak and unworthy boy for daring to endanger my people—and he took from me my powers. He cast me out—onto Midgard's lowly soil—telling me I could not return home until I was truly the man I believed myself to be.”

He met Loki’s eyes only once during his telling, the depths so earnest, Loki wanted terribly to look away, but he forced his eyes to stay with Thor’s.

“Your home was the first I came across after hours of walking.”

…

“Well,” Loki began as his voice faded to quiet, testing the weight and workings of his tongue, running it over the tip of his dull teeth as he searched for the correct words within the depths of his mind and mouth.

“Your father is right in his course of action.”

Thor twitched, the slight trembling of muscle beneath his skin, yet he gave no other action, no other sign of his fury, no angered cry, or raised fist. Despite the lack of visible response, ire and anguish hung around him like a thick mist, palatable as Loki breathed settling heavily within his lungs, making his chest feel all too thin and tight, as if it would collapse in upon itself at any moment.

And seeing he gave no sign of speaking, Loki spoke again,” Your actions were foolish and it is easy to see in your heart you believed them true, but your father is no coward. His waiting to act was not a sign of weakness but one of great diplomacy. Asgard's treaty with Jötunheimr is a fragile thing, a thread waiting to be broken, and while a group of foolish rogue _Jötnar_ does not represent the whole of Jötunheimr, the prince of Asgard is in a way Asgard itself. What you had planned to do could have broken everything your father struggled to build.”

Thor pawed his face in frustration, thick finger rubbing the crease between his brows, “You are very wise.” He murmured, mind seemingly lost in thought, and Loki could almost hear the turn and twist the paths of his concentration took.

“Yes, well—"

Any further words were cut short by his next action, Thor gripped tightly Loki’s hands between his, his hold bruising with excitement, “Then you can teach me, to be so knowledgeable, to be a worthy king as my father wishes?!”

Loki swallowed slowly, making the mistake of meeting his eyes, blue and tender, filled with the pleading implore of a child. He knew he should say no, for what had Loki’s years of teaching taught me? What truth had shown themselves within Loki’s time upon these realms? That in the end they are all selfish creatures. In the end Loki was always alone.

And it must have been that overwhelming sense of loneliness, the drowning need for companionship no matter how short, and the small swell of pity within Loki’s heart that urged him to mutter—regret already forming a cage within his chest.

“Yes, I can.”

…

“When do we start training?” Thor asked, as he finished dressing tanned fingers tucking his tunic into the waist of his trousers. Loki ignored the way Thor’s tanned muscles rippled and gleamed as he moved.

“Patience my dear Thor is a desired trait in a king,” Loki joked, swirling his cloak around thin shoulders, and pulling the red hood up to hide his horns and ebony hair.

“Now come, prince, if you are to stay and train with me, then we must purchase you furs to sleep upon and clothes to wear.”

…

Summer pulsed beneath the land, waiting for its loved turn in the change of seasons, and summer's time was coming very soon. The signs were evident and everywhere. Green grass spread across the meadow where once dried tan stalk lay in its place, and even a few wary flowers dared the chance of an early growth. Leaves and red buds sprouted at the tips of tree's branches and the sun shone in a blue cloudless sky.

Thor pressed down a booted foot on a small patch of moss, watching as moisture rose pooling at his toes, “How much longer until we reach the market?”

“Another hour or so—" Loki paused, frowning, Thor’s eyes were filled with stricken defeat, the skin below them smudge with exhaustion, and his shoulders slumped the growing signs of weariness beginning to weigh down upon him.

Loki sighed, hating the sympathetic section of my soul, “Let us break.”

…

Loki slumped against a large stone, dropping the bags that hung from his shoulder onto the grass. He stretched out his legs, kneading the tense muscles of his thighs through a thick downy layer of fur, watching with lidded eyes as Thor followed suit, sitting at my side.

“Here,” Loki said reaching into a bag and with quick and thin fingers he tossed Thor a chunk of bread, cheese, and a skin of water, smiling slightly as his face alit with pleasure.

Thor ate his meal swiftly with the impression of a man starved, his throat bobbing and the cords of his neck working as he drank water and wet his dried tongue. Slowly Loki ate, taking the skin from him when finished and drinking what was left.

“A few more minutes of rest, then we must get on,” Loki hummed, lying back, his spine giving a few welcoming pops.

Thor let out a grunt of approval, leaning forward to work at the lacing of his boots seeking to give his abused feet a moment of alleviation. Loki turned, to study the arch of his back the subtle curve of a bow, the way the sun inched across him leaving a trail of soft yellow and the way tree branches cast veined shadows across his tanned skin. Shade and light danced across him, changing, moving, and shifting with the spring's soft wind, threatening to envelop and swallow him whole.

“What is it?” Thor inquired, loosely braided hair hanging over his shoulder.

Loki breathed, “It is nothing.”

…

The market was a bustling hive of activity, people buzzing and hustling around like a swarm of bees.

“Stay close to me, I will not search for you if you get lost.”

Thor huffed through his nose with annoyance, “We do have markets such as this in Asgard, and I have been to them Loki, I am not the ignorant boy you think me.”

Loki laughed, the noise an unheard whisper in the commotion around, “Yes, we will see.”

The sleeve of Thor’s tunic held the warmth of his body, heating the chilled tip of Loki’s fingers as he reached out to guide Thor through the waves of the crowd.

“Then Óðinnson let us see if you hold the grand skill of negotiation every king needs.”

…

In the end Thor proved more skilled and adequate than Loki thought. Using his blinding smile and—shocking—wit he managed to convince a market stall owner to trade Loki’s pouches of medicinal herbs and rabbit pelts for four simple tunics and four trousers, two wolf pelts, and one small coverlet.

“I am surprised, Thor, you did well,” Loki told him as we walked home.

Laughter left Thor’s chest in a bellow of thunder, his arms and back pilled full with the day's trades, and he carried them with great pride like a hunter sporting his kill. And he spoke, words echoing between the indigo trees and sending birds scattering into the evening purple sky. And Loki halted my steps, feeling the chain of doubt twist around him.

“You will make a king of me yet, Loki.”

…

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally based on under-base's Satyr Loki au because I was so fond of it. And I've written chapter 1 because I plan on rewriting and revisiting this fic! Hope you enjoy! check me out @squishy-loki on tumblr.


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